


Runnin' with the Devils Down the Filthy Streets of Heaven

by Mother_Heretic



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theocratic Dystopia, Bloodplay, Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Religious Themes, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:58:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_Heretic/pseuds/Mother_Heretic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"The best part about the age-old Light v.s. Dark battle? Neither side can truly win without destroying all life as we know it."</em><br/>- Father Blasphemy, <em>A Collection of Heretic Sayings</em></p>
<p>Published illegally by The Order, circa. 2635</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead Boys Do Cry

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I would like to thank, of course, my amazing beta Absent_Outcast. Without her support, I probably would have never had the courage to post any of this. The first chapter is a prologue and I will be updating as often as I can. I will add additional tags as necessary, but what is up there is what I have planned so far.
> 
> This work does involve some mockery and corruption of religion. If that offends you, please don't read.
> 
> If not, read on!

_“Bless the children, for they are always the first to die.”  
\- Apostle Switchblade, A Collection of Heretic Sayings._

Dead boys do cry.

He knows they do. He’s seen them. That’s the only way to describe the blood oozing out of their gaping eye sockets as they hang limply from their crucifixes. Even as the priests come by with their Latin phrases and swinging incense to bless the bodies, slow rivulets of blood leak down their youthful faces.

They cry for their untimely deaths and the pain of having their flesh carved off by meat-hawkers and animals alike. Not that there’s much difference between the two. There are dead boys hung up all over the marketplace, limp arms thrown gloriously to the side like a flock of birds attempting to take flight. Their palms and crossed feet weep, too, just as vigorously as their eyes.

The sky sometimes cries with them. It speeds up the crawl of their blood tears as it soaks their hair to emaciated skulls. Ghoulish faces contorted in after-death grins leer down at Frank as he hurries past them in the marketplace. He can’t stand to look at their weeping grins and bloody sockets. He can feel their nothing-gaze boring into his back even as he hurriedly purchases holy water to preform the required ritual cleansing of the apartment he shares with his parents.

The lightness of his pocket is heavier than any full purse of gold. He unwillingly relinquishes five silver crosses to the gnarled hand of the shop-keep. He fakes a smile, as he always does, at her legal farewell: “Thank you, sir, and God bless.”

He returns it, as he is required. “Anything to serve our Lord, blessed one.”

The dead boys stare him down as he burrows his way through the crowd like a maggot through a rotting carcass. A thick drop of rain strikes his head, a warning shot to prelude many. He flinches and picks up his pace through the dead-eyed crowd.

Angels wander the streets in their black armor and emblazoned white crosses. They brandish their holy rifles and stare down the unholy passerby. Underneath their black helmets and face-shields, Frank has to remind himself, they are just people. Terrifying people trained from birth to feel no remorse in killing. He successfully makes it past the Angel on his street corner without drawing even a glance. 

He crosses himself without thinking before entering the red apartment door. He edges his way inside, returning the greeting of “God-blessed day” to the filthy homeless people littering the entrance way of the building like human garbage. Frank again has to remind himself that the sunken eyes and pale stretched-out skin belong to people.

He takes his time up the stairs, foreboding filling him for unknown reasons. His hand grips tightly to the rusty railing and he swallows down his unprovoked fear. There’s nothing to be afraid of. He’s simply making his way up to his home, where his parents will be. He’ll enter and hug them both, then they’ll all get down on their knees to pray.

He goes through their mind-numbingly comfortingly routine as he nears the fifth floor. As he nears their paper-thin grey door, foreboding once again grips him like an iron glove. He stops in his tracks, hand already halfway reaching for the scuffed doorknob. Usually he can hear the murmurs of his parents and the squawking of the TV. However, all is silent. 

Frank swallows dryly and, with a shaking hand, opens the door to their apartment. It’s never locked, because, according to the Law: “Thou shalt not lock thy neighbor out of thy home.”

He stands in the doorway, unable to process the scene before him. Not a thing is out of place: not a chair, not a plate, not a cross. His parents are not in the one-room apartment, as they are supposed to be. Instead, they have been replaced by a cream-colored piece of paper left on the table in the center of the room. It curls slightly and wavers with the breeze of the open window.

Frank knows all too well what this means. He doesn’t bother closing the door as he walks forwards across their ratty carpet. His vision narrows down on the document as he picks it up with trembling hands.

The official seal of the Church is loud and red at the top: a cross with wings surrounded by beaming rays of light. Under that, there is the dreaded main body of the document.

_“To whatever souls it may concern:  
Two of the three residents of Apartment Block C, Building F, Room 5C, have been taken under the wing of the Church for immediate purifying. They have been found unclean and unfit to live under God’s holy gaze and will be returned as soon as they have been passed by the Clergy. Several unholy items have been found in the apartment, including: _

_Illustrated books not approved by the Censures: three_  
Toys of a violent nature: seven  
Drawings depicting scenes not approved by the Censures: four  
Anti-Church propaganda: two 

_Two residents confirmed these items as belonging to them: Frank Iero Sr. and Linda Iero. Until then, this residence is a registered Unholy Zone and its borders shall not be breached by any holy residents of God’s Kingdom. Please evacuate this apartment immediately after reading this document of capture._

_May God guide you,_  
The Blessed Leader of Angels,  
Principem Sanctus Angeli” 

Frank lets the document fall back in its place. A tear leaks down his face and clings to his jaw. He turns and carefully leaves the apartment. He shuts the door with a click after him. His hands grip the strap of his satchel, fingernails digging into the grubby fabric. He has nowhere to go, no parents to guide him. Frank is no fool; he knows he will never see his parents again. He goes slowly down the creaking stairs, prolonging the moment when he would have to step out onto the cold streets of New Heaven. He can tell by the steady pitter-patter that it is now raining in full down upon the grimy streets. 

He reaches the lobby and looks at the leering faces of the homeless. Frank can see it in their eyes: they had known his parents had been taken. Yet all they had done to warn him was throw greetings of “God-blessed day” and smile at him with knowing, hungry grins.

Frank is no longer convinced they are people. He is convinced, however, that he will soon be joining their emaciated ranks.

He lets the tears fall freely down his face as he shoulders his way out onto the streets. Cold rain mixes with hot tears as his well-worn sneakers splashed into a dark puddle. He flows with the crowd, not knowing where he is going nor particularly caring.

Frank finds himself back at the marketplace, this time staring down the dead boys instead of avoiding their weeping gaze.

Dead boys do cry and, for the first time, Frank knows why.


	2. Night of the Werewolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it feels as though Frank will never escape from this hell-hole he has fallen into.

_”Sometimes, when I look at those starving on the streets, I feel an enormous wave of pity wash over me. Not for those wretches, but for myself because I know they are better off than I.”_  
\- Brother Sin, _My Time With The Devil_

Frank presses himself hard against the wet concrete bricks. They dig into his back like the rough edges of a tomb. He controls his ragged breathing so that he produces barely a wisp of vapor in the dank alleyway. The smell of human rot and decay is like a separate entity, slowly choking Frank with its heavy handed grip. 

The pounding of Angels’ boots pass by the alleyway, perfectly synchronized and thundering as they splash as one into grimy puddles and break bottles under their steel-toed march. Even their equipment clicks and rattles with military efficiency.

Frank prays to a God he doesn’t really believe in as the tail of the regimen nears him. He squeezes his eyes shut and fights the urge to tighten his grip on the biting bricks. Even the slightest movement will give him away.

The regimen, thankfully, passes his alley without stopping, like a plague passing over a healthy household. Frank doesn’t let go of his breath until he can no longer hear their boots. It escapes him in a massive whoosh, cold smoke curling out of parted lips as his body curls and relaxes itself. 

A loud screech echoes off the grimy walls of the city, telling the unfortunate tale of one not so lucky. It’s quickly cut off without so much as a whisper. Frank forces himself off the wall and burrows deeper into the relative safety of the dark alleyway. The walls and ground are slick with the recent freezing rain, causing filthy puddles mixed with rotting cardboard and soggy pieces of food to pop up like lesions on a diseased carcass. Flies buzz in the dim light of grubby lamps. Scraped doors stand guard in the choking space, framed by boxes and piles of rags.

Frank sniffles and wipes his runny nose, hopscotching around the disgusting drainage of human decadence. His hand digs into the strap of his satchel as he maneuvers the alleyway. Sharp-eyed humans made of torn clothing and hopelessness watch the fresh meat from the shadows.

He stops in front of a dingy green door and looks around. He does not see the eyes watching him from the darkness like the bloodthirsty predators they are are. Frank takes a deep breath to prepare himself for what he knows will be waiting for him behind this light green door with its rusted handle. He’s been visiting here for a week now, earning just enough money to buy himself food and not much else. As for the food, it keeps him barely alert enough to avoid the Angel patrols and the human waste he is now grouped together with. 

He knocks once, rather timidly. He steels himself and straightens his back before knocking again, louder and with more force. He shrinks back down again the moment the door opens.

A grizzled, haggard man stands there, a full half-foot above Frank. Frank gulps but hides most of his fear behind his indifferent mask. Even after visiting here several times, the man still frightens him. The man, Woods, examines him with a cutting blue eye and hawks loudly in the back of his throat. A glob of something brownish and glistening lands between Frank’s sneakers. Frank flinches and shifts his stance, cheap rubber grating against rough concrete.

“You back again?” Woods says, looking down at him from the sharp runway of his nose.

“Yes, sir,” Frank says respectfully, still a bit taken aback as always from the lack of the Church-ordained greeting. “Are there any spots open?”

Woods rubs his thin nostrils between tobacco stained fingers. “Yeah, I s’pose,” he mutters and turns his back on Frank, greasy overcoat flapping with his swift movement.

Frank follows Woods into the dingy hallway, pulling the door shut with an obedient click after him. His fingers clench the strap of his satchel like a child’s blanket. He chews the side of his mouth as Woods holds open a familiar faux-wood door. 

The peeling wallpaper sends off a smell of mold and atrophying hopes as he enters. Woods slams the door as soon as he has all of his limbs inside with a: “Be ready in five minutes!”

Frank shrugs off his satchel and sets it on a slumping chair in front of a dusty mirror. Racks upon racks of clothes confront him, ranging from brand new to barely hanging together. The clothes are heaped on the thin frames, like furs wrapped around a dying old woman. A whoosh of long blonde hair pops up from behind one of these skeletal stands.

“Oh, hey, Frank!” a soft voice calls.

“Hello, Nat,” Frank replies with a sense of relief. He won’t be alone.

A small, gentle-eyed girl approaches him, no more than sixteen and with a huge bundle of clothes in her arms. “Here, I went ahead and picked out your outfit.” She peels off an outfit from the top and tosses it over to Frank. The white fuzz of her cheap bunny ears floats lightly in the sickly light.

She sets down the rest of the clothing with a small sigh. She’s already dressed in her “working clothes”: a skin-tight black corset that pushes up her breasts painfully, a barely there velvet skirt that strangles her delicate pale thighs, and red fishnet stockings leading down to a pair of agonizing black pumps. The entire outfit is completed by a set of bunny ears and a pin-on cottontail. 

“You look lovely, Nat,” Frank says, and means it. It’s not her alluring outfit that makes her beautiful in Frank’s eyes, not that it’s not arousing. Frank means the small aura of pride and strength that always clings to her, no matter how many piss beers she serves to horny drunkards, and no matter how many times they wolf-whistle at her as she swings around a metal pole set on scuffed floorboards. Frank has never met a stronger or more determined person than Nat.

Nat understands the meaning behind his simple, plastic words and her eyes crinkle slightly. “Oh, stop it,” she says without meaning it. “Get dressed, you flirt.” She totters over to the grimy mirror and begins applying thick, choking makeup to her delicate and naturally pretty face.

Frank smiles to himself as he begins taking off his threadbare white shirt. He lost his modesty around other people about five days ago, when he first started working in this pit of debauchery. He picks up a gauzy, completely see-through black shirt and pulls it on with care as to not rip the thin fabric. He shimmies out of his pants as Nat wishes him good luck and gives him a friendly pat on his shoulder. He savors her unique smell before she slips out of the door with a final green-eyed glance.

Frank toes his pants, underwear, and shirt underneath the cracked dressing table. He pulls on a set of lacy black panties with a disgusted grimace. What he does here every night always revolts him to his very core, but there is nothing he can do about it. He has to eat, and, to be honest, he’s too frightened to go looking for work anywhere else. Woods had found him shivering and starving on the streets and had offered him a job. Frank still feels he owes the hoary, slightly scary old man for that small act of almost-kindness.

His self-loathing grows with each article of clothing he puts on: a set of sheer stockings that clip to a ruffly garter belt, shimmering black heels, and a pair of painted-on leather shorts. He’s numb by the time he pulls on the cat ears and furry tail.

He leans over the peeling surface of the dressing table and picks up a cheap tube of red lipstick with a shaking hand. He applies it clumsily, picking off any excess with worn fingernails. He draws thick lines around his eyes with an eyeliner pencil. He steps back and looks at himself in the mirror. He begins trembling, words of past patrons echoing through his head:

“Filthy whore.”

“Disgusting piece of trash.”

“Slutty bitch.”

He clenches his fists and takes a deep breath, eyes closing to allow himself an opportunity to look at who he is on the inside rather than the whorish image confronting him in the streaked mirror.

When his eyes open again, along with the flimsy door, a new resolve steels his eyes. If Nat can remain above this filth, then so can he.

“Ready?” Woods asks around the door, taking him in with an arch of his bristly eyebrows. “Good. Now get out there and serve some customers.” 

Frank straightens his shoulders and strides past Woods. His stride wobbles a bit as he walks across the uneven boards, but rights itself again as he enters the main part of the illicit bar through a small side door.

He slips through unnoticed in the dim, smoky light, crowded booths, and multitude of enticingly dressed waiters and waitresses. Men and women alike throw catcalls at the servers, laughing raucously around stinking cigarettes and burning drinks. The armored uniforms of Angels are visible here and there, face masks removed to show harsh faces contorted into smiles that seem to be carved there. It’s a hive of sins and debauchery with a veritable spectrum of laws broken here: tobacco, alcohol consumption, revealing outfits, unordained sex, and no shortage of forbidden music.

Frank is pulled aside by a drunk Angel, a large hand hooking around his hip and pulling him close to her table. She grins at him with frighteningly white teeth. She grabs his surprised face with one hand and yanks him close, foul alcoholic breath hitting him like a solid wall. 

“Hey, there, sweetheart,” she leers. “Why don’t you go get mama a pint like a good boy?” 

She sends him off with a sharp slap on his ass, drawing guffaws from her companions seated around the glossy table. Frank cringes, but manages to give her a faint smile over his shoulder.

He makes his way to the bar, trying his best not to flinch at the groping hands that attack him from all sides like he is running a gauntlet made of flesh. He reaches the bar and pulls up his gauzy shirt from where it had slipped down his shoulder. 

“One pint of beer, Ray,” Frank says over the loud conversation. Ray, a large man with curly, shoulder-length hair, only nods and turns away to fill his order. Frank’s never actually heard Ray talk, only seen him nod and shake his head or occasionally gesture with a massive, calloused hand.

Frank accepts the tray with a practiced ease and manages to weave his way back through the tables to the Angel without spilling anything. He bends over slightly to place the drink on the ringed table, getting his ass roughly squeezed for his efforts. He straightens up with a forced smile. “There you are, ma’am. Can I get you anything else?”

“Yeah, I think there’s something else you could give me,” she sneers, and nudges the man next to her. The whole table laughs raucously and gives her knowing looks. Frank pales, his smile slipping slightly.

“Nah, I’m just kidding, kitty-cat,” she laughs. “I prefer men with a bit more meat on their bones.” She squeezes his thigh with a gloved hand and stuffs a couple of wings down his shorts. “Get out of here.”

Frank nods and inclines his head before getting called away to another table. The rest of his night is predictable: getting groped by strangers, being called rude names, enduring getting generally ridiculed, and dashing around the bar in uncomfortable heels.

Towards the end of his shift, though, something decidedly unpredictable happens. It starts with a hand snapping the leather of his shorts as he passes by a shadowy corner of the bar. Frank stops short and turns around to face the source of the hand. At this late in the night, Frank’s dime-store eyeliner is starting to slip down his face and he wants nothing more than to run full-speed back to the dressing room and rip all of the degrading clothing off. His shorts are pinching painfully around his groin and Frank can’t think of a more agonizing torture than the sadistic bear traps his feet are currently shoved into. Worse yet, he hasn’t seen Nat since he left the dressing room...

“Yes, sir?” he says in a sweetly sick tone laced with just the faintest taste of poison attitude. 

The man chuckles from his shadowy booth, completely unoccupied except for himself. All Frank can see of him in the darkness is the pale slope of a nose and a long strand of jet-black hair floating about in the light with a mind of its own. “I’ll have a gin and scotch on the rocks.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Frank replies without thinking and hurries away again, just trying to make it through the night.

By the time he clomps to a stop in front of the man’s table, he has vanished. Frank sighs in frustration and bites his lip. He’s just about to turn away with the amber liquid when a small, white flutter catches his eye. He frowns and leans over the table, cold fingers closing around a small scrap of damp paper.

He doesn’t have time to read it before he’s summoned by a large table for the last round of drinks. He stuffs the scrap down his shorts without thinking and serves the table with a fast-fading courteous smile.

As soon as they leave, stumbling and singing half-remembered refrains, Frank practically sprints to the dressing room, desperate to get the slutty clothes off of him. He wipes his sinfully red mouth with the back of his hand as he enters, leaving a long, smeared mark on the back of his hand.

He spots Nat on the other side of the room, pulling on a pair of well-worn jeans. He smiles and waves at her. “Rough crowd tonight, huh?”

Nat laughs, a sound devoid of her usual humor and gentleness. “Yeah, you’re telling me.”

Frank frowns at the unfamiliar tone. “Nat?” He takes a step forward, all thought of getting out of his unpleasant attire vanishing like cigar smoke.

She looks up from her pants, hopping slightly as she yanks them up her waist. Her face is marked by an angry bruise around cheek and an ugly split lip. Before she pulled her pants up, Frank could’ve sworn he had seen a dried trickle of blood leading down the inside of her slender thighs. Frank stands there, mouth hanging open as he looks at her.

“What... What happened?” Frank’s voice trembles and gives away how much he actually cares.

Nat rolls her eyes. “Oh, you know, one of _those._ ” She says ‘those’ with an accompanying hand movement that Frank doesn’t quite grasp.

“One of what?”

She gestures with her hands as she picks up her ratty purse. “You know... The ones that like it rough in the bedroom?”

“In the... bedroom?” Deep down, Frank understands what this means, but his waking mind refuses to accept it. His shining, proud, innocent Nat...

Nat looks at him like he’s a slow three-year-old. “What, you’ve never had one of those?” she says, defensively. 

“What? Me? No, never! I’ve never...” Frank shakes his head quickly, cat ears slipping a bit.

“You mean they don’t?...” she trails off.

“N-No! I had no idea this was that kind of place.”

“Well, I don’t know what kind of fucking fantasy world you’re living in,” Nat shrugs on her purse and starts toeing on her shoes. “But, yeah. This is that kind of place. I can’t believe they haven’t whored you out yet, especially with those legs. Hell, you could pass for a girl if they got the customers liquored up enough.”

Frank flinches at the vulgar language. This isn’t the Nat he knows, nor is it one he particularly wants to know. What had happened to his soft-voiced, shining Nat, the one that held herself above the scum like a gleaming blonde angel? He’s seeing a more human, grittier side of Nat and he feels intimidated.

Nat sighs at his hurt expression and crosses the room. She bites her lip and looks at him with a regretful sheen to her eyes. “Sorry, Frank. I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I’ve just had a tough night, is all.” She leans in and pecks his cheek lightly, a fleeting touch of pink lips that’s gone all too soon. “See you tomorrow night?”

Frank nods, swallowing around a lump that had formed without him noticing. “Yeah, Nat.” He manages a shaking, sad smile. “See you tomorrow night.”

Nat jerks her lips up as well, and leaves the dressing room without another word. Frank sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, a habit he had picked up from his father. Frank’s respect for Nat had certainly grown.

He strips himself of the humiliating outfit and hangs it all back up. He yanks on his regular clothes with a feeling of relief. Even though he had been wearing the same clothes for a week, the musty smell comforts him rather than disgusting him. He takes a few moments to scrub all of the waxy makeup off before picking up his satchel, several crosses at the bottom jingling and clanking together.

A small piece of paper grabs his attention for the second time that night. It trembles minutely in the slight draft. Frank stoops down to pick it up and rolls it between his fingers. He remembers this scrap now. He slowly unfolds it in the yellowish light. 

He frowns at the unknown symbol: a five-pointed star encased by a circle. It’s hastily scribbled in black ink and some of the lines are running. Frank can just make out a set of squiggled letters squished in at the bottom as though they were an afterthought.

“Order of the Heretics?” Frank mutters aloud. The word ‘Heretics’ dimly echoes within him, perhaps a forgotten teaching from his Sunday School days. He frowns at the scrap of paper and folds it back carefully, dropping it neatly into his satchel.

He shuffles back into the main bar and pokes his head in. “Uh, Woods?”

Woods looks up from where he is wiping the bar. Ray and the other servers are already gone. “What is it, boy?”

“Is there anything else you want me to do before I go?” Frank asks timidly, hoping he can just grab his paycheck and leave.

Woods lets go of the sopping rag with a wet slap. He rubs his stubbly chin with a wide hand. “No, I don’t think so.” He roots around in his back pocket, eventually coming up with a ratty leather wallet. He mumbles to himself as he tosses wings onto the table.

“One, two, three, four,” he counts, eyes directed at the stack. “There you are.” He goes back to flinging the rag around the countertop.

Frank picks up the incredibly thin bills in his hands. Their snow-white surface is stained with the fingerprints of thousands. The Church insignia is thinly inked on each bill, staring up at him four times. He tucks them away inside his satchel with the rest of the general detritus that has collected there. He stands there for a moment, uncomfortable about one small detail of the transaction.

“Why are you still here? Bar is closed, you’ve got your money, now scram!” Woods says harshly, fixing him with one blue eye like a bug underneath a glittering pin.

Frank twists the strap of his satchel. “It’s just that...” He trails off, not wanting to provoke the bigger man.

“It’s just what?” The rag has by now again stopped in its halfhearted attempts at cleaning. All is still in the nearly deserted bar.

“Well, this is less than you gave me last night.” Frank swallows. “And... And... Tonight was even busier...”

“Your point being?” Woods voice is dangerously low and calm, a barely visible tripwire.

“It’s just not enough, is all. I earned more than this,” Frank says, spotting the tripwire yet foolishly blundering through it.

“Did you now?” Woods straightens to his full height. Suddenly, the solid wood bar doesn’t seem as strong of a barrier. “I didn’t have to offer you a job, you spoiled brat. There are kids more deserving of a job than you who starving on the streets right now! You’ll take what you get and you’ll be damn grateful for it!” he thunders, one massive hand coming down to strike the table like an avenging god.

Frank visibly shrinks, knees trembling slightly with fear. “S-Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean-”

“Of course you didn’t mean anything,” Woods says in a calmer tone. He waves dismissively at the boy. “No one ever does, when it suits them.” Woods goes right back to dragging the rag about the bar.

Frank stands there for a moment, paralyzed. He blinks like a startled animal. Woods looks up, an exasperated expression in those fathomless blue eyes. “Well?” he thunders with a broad sweep of his arm. “What in the hell are you still doing here? Scram!”

He starts, as though struck physically. He turns and leaves with anymore hesitation, letting himself out onto the cold streets. Frank closes the door and hears it automatically lock as it clicks into place.

Frank glances around superstitiously and squeezes his satchel strap unconsciously for good luck. He sees nothing in the freezing shadows, but the shadows certainly see him. He steps out of the small circle of light cast by the cheap, plastic door lamp. 

He shivers in the cold and makes his way further into the alley. He can’t go back to the main street to buy food until curfew lifts at morning and, maybe, that’s for the best. Though he can’t see the yellowed, bloodshot eyes watching him, he can certainly feel them boring into his back. Bringing any sort of food down into this alleyway would be like hammering the last nail into his own coffin, clambering inside, and then sealing himself in.

The alley already reminds him of a tomb, so the analogy makes a little too much sense for him. He shrugs it off and stops near a rather large collection of boxes. He looks around, a paranoid and habitual motion by now, before crawling on all floors into a rather large, mostly dry box. The pile of boxes is situated underneath a disused fire escape which offers it some protection from the gloomy drizzle and rain. 

He curls up in the box, making sure all his various limbs and appendages are out of sight before clutching his satchel close like a teddy bear. His own fear and cowardice towards Woods disgusts him vaguely. He should really be braver... Why does he act like such a kicked puppy all the time? Frank gives himself a silent, stern talking to before closing his eyes. The talk is a familiar one. He gives himself this talk every time he does something stupid or cowardly. It never works, but it gives him comfort in the moment which, in itself, is rather cowardly and stupid. He’s used to sleeping on cardboard by now and drifts uncomfortably into sleep with barely a hitch.

His level, quiet breathing is only just audible to the man standing outside. His long, black robes are reminiscent of a priest and his feathery ebony hair drifts down to his shoulders. He drops a white packet noiselessly to the damp pavement and nudges it inside Frank’s box with a shiny shoe. He glances over his shoulder at the collecting homeless, takes in their hungry and scavenger demeanor with a single sweep of his eye. 

A black marker held between spider-like, pale fingers etches a skillful pentagram on the top of the box. The man caps the marker and hides it away inside his robe, his mind now set at ease. The people of the streets will not harm Frank tonight, not with his blessing. If it can be called that.

He is lost to the grimy darkness of the streets as he turns and continues down the alley, to what is presumably a dead end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out earlier than I expected it to... Which is a nice surprise
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Can You Resist the Devil's Might?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The answer is no. Frank can't.

_“It is easier to sin than to be pure for the same reason it is easier to swim downstream than upstream.”_  
\- Apostle Switchblade, _A Collection of Heretic Sayings_

Dark smoke spirals from the crowded rooftops and looks down at the well-beaten civilians and the endless patrols of Angels. The sun wavers hesitantly in the morning sky, sending out weak rays of yellow light across the blocky city of New Heaven. People in thin clothes move in waves to their destinations. Propaganda adorns every street corner with its easily swallowed lies, their corners peeling with age. Tall, larger than life banners of the Pope flap lazily from buildings, commanding the sinners of New Heaven to ‘Repent Your Sins or Suffer God’s Wrath!’.

In the midst of this decaying paradise, Frank slowly uncurls himself in his slightly smelly box. His foot brushes against something about the size of a hand and he recoils with the fear of the unknown. He glances down and catches the edge of a white packet. He frowns at it and shimmies out of his box, body aching from another harsh night on the ground. He straightens his rumpled clothes and runs a cold, stiff hand through his matted hair. He leans down, picks up the thick packet, and turns it over several times.

He slides a hand over its smooth surface. It’s completely blank without the slightest indication as to what it might be. Frank digs a fingernail underneath the seam of the packet and rips it open, small wisps of paper fluttering down to the dirty ground like the downy feathers of a baby bird. He pulls out something metallic and heavy wrapped securely in paper. He lets the outer packet drop to the ground as he carefully unfolds the crinkly tissue.

A weighty medallion about the size of his palm catches the meager morning light. The metal is dark and strangely rough, twisted into the same star within a circle from the scrap of paper. A chain sways in the dank air of the alley. Frank frowns at the object and looks at the paper in his other hand. The same hastily scribbled and twisted handwriting from the bar the night before greets him:

_“423 Watercrest Ave at sunset. We can help you and your parents.Tell no one you are coming. Make sure you are not followed. Disclosing this information to anyone will result in your immediate and painful death._

_Keep the balance,  
~FB”_

Frank’s mouth hangs open slightly, not knowing what to think. Who’s ‘FB’, and what could he possibly do to help him? And what about the ‘immediate and painful death’ bit? Would it even be safe to go? How did this ‘FB’ know about his parents? Surely they couldn’t still be alive, could they? These questions gnaw at him as he stashes the heavy medallion in his satchel along with the letter. 

He emerges into the grey dawn and slips into the flow of the hushed crowd, fitting right in with his bowed head and slumped shoulders. A neon sign flashes periodically even in the light of day, declaring the purity shop to his right to be ‘Open!’. 

He squeezes out of the crowd and into a disused abandoned lot. Food carts are sitting there, sending up plumes of soft steam from their greasy grills. Frank’s stomach growls as he approaches the closest one and the smell of cheap, fatty food fills his nostrils. Other people are already lined up quietly in front of the tiny restaurants, shifting and clearing their throats uncomfortably in the near quiet of the early morning. He joins their ranks, staring determinedly at his sneakers as he nears the front of the line.

A fat, balding man sets his fleshy forearms on the grimy counter. A thinning mustache clings to his upper lip. “God-blessed day, stranger. What can I get you on this holy day?” The harshness of his tone conflicts with his words.

Frank goes up slightly onto his tip-toes. “I’ll have the tofu dog, please.” Yet another one of rules of Law. It’s illegal to kill or consume animals for their meat yet Frank’s sure most of the food he eats here isn’t tofu. More likely, it’s just the meat of unfortunate cats, dogs, and rats. But by this point, Frank can barely bring himself to care. He’s so hungry, he’s pretty sure his stomach has already started eating itself.

The man twists away from Frank, the fat on his neck jiggling unappealingly. “One tofu dog!” he yells into the tiny van-turned-eatery. A skinny, dodgy-eyed man nods and a plume of heat and steam roars up from the just visible grill.

A few moments, and a few crosses, later, Frank is sitting on the edge of the lot with his back against the uncomfortable wall and feet stretched out on the hard ground. His sneakers brush several clumps of tough grass and broken glass. He munches contentedly on his tofu dog, disgusting grease juice rolling down his chin. He wipes it away with an already oily wrist and stuffs the last bite into his mouth.

The lot is less populated by now; most of the usual customers had already continued on their way to their thankless and demeaning jobs. Frank gets to his feet, humming under his breath at the feel of a full belly. The tune is half-remembered and mostly tuneless, probably something he picked up from the bar.

He runs his hand through his hair in a desperate attempt to look decent, flattening it as best as he can and teasing out the worst tangles. He straightens out his wrinkled shirt and pants and daubs at several suspicious looking stains with a wad of napkins. He sighs at his street-rat appearance and gives up. Frank is beyond sick and tired of the smoky, perverted bar and he needs a steady job more than anything if he has any hopes of surviving the winter. He’s set aside this day for a serious job search; hopefully starting and ending at the cozy cafe just across from his alley.

Frank takes a deep, courage-enhancing breath before shuffling off through the thinning crowd to the cafe. His sneakers splash in unavoidable puddles several times, getting a disgusted noise and a glare from Frank as they mark up his already stained jeans.

He stops in front of the cafe, one hand coming up to grasp nervously at his satchel strap. It simply says ‘Coffee and Desserts’ above the small shop, a small ‘Help Wanted’ sign making Frank’s heart leap hopefully. He presses inside and his entire body tingles from the sudden warmth. The cafe is cramped, but clean: a well-wiped counter on his left with a bored looking attendant, a mostly spotless off-white tile floor, and several rickety metal tables and chairs. A thin woman with straight, jet-black hair sits at one of these tables, murmuring to herself as she hunches over a steaming cup of coffee and scribbles furiously on a napkin. Her bloodshot eyes flick over to him and take him in with a crooked smile before darting back to her napkin scribbling.

Frank slowly approaches the counter in his sopping sneakers, the small puddles of water forming underneath his soaked sneakers earning him a look of irritation from the barista. 

“God-blessed day, stranger,” she drones in a bored voice. Her brown hair is drawn back in a loose bun and squarish glasses perch on her nose. 

Frank licks his lips nervously and shifts, sneakers squeaking slightly. “God-blessed day to you, too. Uh, I saw you were hiring and was wondering if I could have the job?”

She twists her mouth and sighs. “If I had a nickel for every street-rat that came in here asking that...” she mumbles, bending down beneath the counter to rummage around in the cabinets.

Frank’s confidence shrinks a bit as she slaps down several sheets of official looking paper. He reaches out for the papers, only to be stopped by the barista slamming down her outstretched hand on the papers like a squashed spider. Frank flinches and he gapes at her malevolent expression.

She narrows her brown eyes and hisses: “Listen, kid, I appreciate that you’re trying to get a job and all, but your kind isn’t welcome here. Do you even have a home address you can put on those papers?”

Frank is rudely reminded of his missing parents, a fresh wound that stings with the salt the barista just rubbed into it. His eyes water without his permission and makes his lip tremble. His head lowers itself to hide his pained tears.

“No,” he replies, his voice quavering. “I-I just really need this job...”

“I don’t care what you ‘need’. I know your kind. The money’ll be gone from the cash register the moment I turn my back,” she snaps at him.

Frank shakes his head. “Please,” he whispers. “Just give me a chance.” He has to get this job; he doesn’t think he can go back to the ‘bar’ after knowing what it truly is: a whorehouse. One fat tear rolls down his nose and plops onto the edge of the papers.

Her hand slowly withdraws. Her voice is softer and slightly apologetic. “Oh my gosh, are you crying?”

Frank shakes his head stubbornly and swabs at his wet eyes with the back of his hand. “Forget it,” he mumbles. He should’ve known better than to expect a job at a nice place like this.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, gathering up the papers. “I know this isn’t much of an excuse, but my day hasn’t exactly been peachy. I really can’t let you have a job here; my manager would murder me if these forms weren’t filled out properly.”

Frank sniffs and holds back a sob, forcing his sadness down his throat. “Yeah, I understand,” he says because it’s the polite thing to reply with. “You need this job, too.”

“But,” she adds. “I can put in a good word for you with my friend. He runs a Bible shop down the street and I’m sure he needs some help.” She grabs a length of blank receipt paper from the cash register and a plastic pen from a pocket in her apron. She scrawls on it quickly and hands it to Frank with a rueful smile.

“Thanks,” Frank smiles back. He’s pretty sure he knows the shop she’s talking about.

She gives him quick directions to the shop and sincere wishes of good luck before sending him on his way. The black-haired woman is gone; only her ink-stained napkin remains As Frank passes the table, he can just see the edge of the strange star and circle symbol. A shiver runs down Frank’s back and he slips outside into the barely warm morning.

-

A bell rings cheerily as Frank pushes open the door to ‘Bundles of Bibles’. Tightly-packed shelves of Bibles greet him, a veritable rainbow of colors and sizes. The shop smells like paper and incense, the warm light of strategically placed lamps shining on the polished wooden floor.

A tall man with downy brown hair smiles welcomingly at Frank as he enters and, for a brief moment, Frank’s heart stops. He recognizes this man as well as the shop. His parents bought all of their Bibles and other theologic books here, Frank often tagging along for something other than than the well-bound pieces of religious text. Frank has feelings for the owner, Daniel, and decidedly impure ones at that. He can’t count the number of times he’s woken up with wet sheets and Daniel’s blue eyes in his mind’s eye. He’s always been burningly ashamed of these dreams, knowing they could get him horribly tortured if anyone found out. He had kept it a secret, this attraction towards men, from even his parents. He didn’t think he could’ve stood the looks of shame in their eyes if they had known.

“God-blessed day, stranger, welcome to ‘Bundles of Bibles’,” he says in that low, silky voice of his that always makes Frank melt like a pat of butter on a hot stove. “Feel free to look around.”

Frank swallows roughly. “God-blessed day. Actually, I was looking for a job.” He blunders forward hurriedly with his speech as a small frown appears on that smooth face. “Your friend down at the coffee shop told me to give this to you.”

He steps forwards a bit to hand the receipt over, a brief brush of their hands making Frank’s stomach do flips. Daniel smoothes it out and scans over it quickly.

“Ah, yes,” he smiles at the paper. “Well, if Morgan thinks you’re alright, then that’s enough for me. Welcome aboard.” His smile is now directed at Frank, along with a hand to shake. Frank takes it and smiles timidly back, sparks running down his back from the brief contact. It ends all too soon as Daniel resumes speaking.

“Your job will be pretty basic: manning the cash register when I’m out, stocking the shelves, and doing inventory. Think you can handle it?” He absentmindedly stuffs the paper into his pocket.

Frank nods eagerly. “Can I start now?”

“Of course,” Daniel says and points towards a box sitting in the far corner. “You can start there.”

-

Eight hours later, Frank walks out of ‘Bundles of Bibles’ with sixteen wings in his satchel and a smile on his face. He feels like jumping up and down and screaming with joy right there in the street. He has a job, and a good paying one at that! If he continues saving up his money, he may just be able to earn enough to pay for a small apartment.

He smiles to himself as he nears the corner of the street. He’s so caught up in his own euphoria, that he doesn’t notice the Angel until it’s too late.

“Umph!” he grunts as he suddenly smacks into what seems to be a large black wall made of kevlar. He stumbles back and looks up. His mouth drops and he trembles in fear.

“Oh my gosh!” he squeaks. “I’m so sorry, holy one! Please forgive me!”

The Angel swoops a massive head down towards him, blocking out the sun as it towers over Frank. Their gender is impossible to tell in the thick armor and tinted face shields. A huge hand grips Frank’s bicep before he can run.

“Who dares to attack an Angel?” a feminine yet decidedly terrifying voice booms out. Pedestrians have already started to steer clear from the drama unfolding on the corner, knowing it’s best to stay uninvolved.

“Attack? No! I just wasn’t looking where I was going, blessed being!” Frank stammers. “I meant no offense,” he gasps as the Angel suddenly twists his arm up, forcing him on his tiptoes.

“Wait a moment,” she mutters, face-shielding tilting to the side with interest. “You’re that cat from the bar!”

Frank blinks. He doesn’t say anything to confirm or deny it just in case the Angel might report him.

She laughs and shakes her head. “I can’t believe it. What are the chances?” She lets go of his arm and slaps his ass, hard. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

Frank can’t hurry away fast enough, throwing a heart-felt “Thank you!” over his shoulder. He can hardly believe his luck. That seedy bar actually did him some good... He walks quickly, the setting sun making him squint his eyes uncomfortably.

The sunset.

Frank remembers the note with a sickening lurch that feels almost physical. He ducks into the closest alleyway and rummages around in his satchel before yanking the correct paper out in his triumphant fist. He unfolds it hurriedly and reads it over again in the rapidly decreasing light. 

He sighs and slowly puts the note away. Does he even need help anymore? How does he know he won’t just get stabbed and robbed the moment he steps foot in the building? Frank recognizes the address; it’s an abandoned apartment building just a five-minute walk east of here. 

But, then again, the note had mentioned helping his parents. The logical and worldly part of Frank tells him that there is no way his parents are still alive if what Frank has heard of the Church’s cleansing techniques is to be believed. Another smaller and vaguely shunned part of him persistently and rather stupidly insists that his parents could be alive. It’s a childish part of him that still believes in the superheroes that used to captivate his mind with their just actions and righteous causes from between the rough pages of smuggled comic books. 

In the end, Frank decides to at least check the place out. He knows he could never live with himself if he doesn’t. So, with that resolution firmly fixed in his mind, he deposits the note back into his satchel and makes his cautious way to the mysterious building.

He arrives just as the streets are starting to clear of dreary commuters, the hour of curfew slowly approaching. Frank stands on the steps leading up to the time-trodden door and takes in the building.

By all outward appearances, the building seems abandoned: thick boards over the windows and cheap blue paint peeling off its weatherbeaten surface. Frank stares at the splintering door and wonders if he should knock or just go in. He’s not sure how these secret meetings work, nor how to go about them.

He looks around himself to confirm that he’s out of sight of any roving Angels before nervously twisting the rusted handle. It gives with jolted, scraping movements. Frank’s heart springs up into his throat and beats rapidly in surprise. Pushing with his shoulder on its cracked surface, he maneuvers the creaky door open.

An empty chasm of an inside yawns back at him. It’s as though the building has been hollowed out and left with nothing but shadows and lingering scents of mustiness. Frank gulps before stepping into the solid wall of black. Invisible floorboards moan obstinately at the sudden weight of his ragged sneakers.

He closes the door to a crack of gleaming light behind him, standing nervously on the threshold. A strange feeling grips him, one of premonition. He feels as though he’s standing on more than just the threshold of an abandoned and hollowed out building; a turning point of such grave importance that the feeling almost overwhelms him.

It passes after a horrible, self-aware moment, and he takes a trembling step forwards. Another shiver of fate passes through his mind, though nowhere near as intense as the first one. A contract has just been signed, one that has forever changed his destiny. He feels as weak and as powerless as a puppet being tossed around the harsh grip of its puppet master. Something is happening here beyond his control, and it terrifies him.

The door suddenly slams behind with a tremendous thud in the deathly silence of forgotten things, plunging Frank into total blackness. He freezes, eyes stretched wide to catch light that isn’t there and nerves thrumming to the tip of his fingers. He feels his ears automatically strain themselves for sound. Frank is pinned underneath the intense nothing-gaze of darkness and his own terror chokes him and denies him movement.

A single electric light sputters to life about five feet in front of him, casting a circle of hesitant light onto the warped floorboards. It shows Frank he is in a hall of some sort: wallpaper resignedly bowing down to time and dusting the floor with their curling edges.

The light brings relief and just as soon takes that relief away. There is a chair in the center of the hall, directly underneath the light with a man poised on its rigid surface. Familiar white hair brushes shoulders robed in black and the angle of the light casts his face into deep shadow. Frank can only see the wrinkle of a bandana covering his mouth and nose; black with some sort of unintelligible white design on it.

“Hello, Frank,” comes a muffled voice from this unexpected specter of a man.

A dry breath wheezes audibly through the fabric of the black bandana. Frank is dumbfounded as the man speaks again.

“Welcome to the Order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a filler, but that happens to all of us.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. They Call Him Cardinal Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He goes by many names, but he prefers those he chose for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to jnixi for giving me a pleasant shove in the right direction.

_"In the darkness I found my brightest light."  
\- Brother Sin, A Collection of Heretic Sayings ___

__Frank’s confusion twists itself around in his mind, over and over again, chasing the same points until it is nothing but a blank wall of incomprehensibility. A mute stare of astonishment meets a cool, calculating one._ _

__The man stands up in a rustle of black robes, not unlike a carrion crow arranging its feathers. He chuckles at Frank’s shocked silence. He clasps his hands behind his back like a celibate priest and examines Frank with piercing hazel eyes._ _

__Now that the timid light of the single lamp shines on him in full, Frank can see his features. Feathery black hair dusts at his shoulders, framing a pale face with two inscrutable gemstone eyes. His black bandana hides everything else but the bridge of his nose. A white, and, for some reason, upside-down cross stands boldly out against the dark fabric of his face-covering._ _

__“Who... Who are you?” Frank rasps. His hands are digging into his satchel so hard he can feel the crescent moons of his fingernails through the grubby fabric._ _

__“I’m called many things,” he responds. “Heretic King, Shadow Friend, Lord of Pagans, and a Devil Among Men.” Each name sends a shudder of something approaching fear down Frank’s back. What has he gotten himself into?_ _

__“However, I prefer Father Blasphemy,” he finishes. “It’s a name I gave myself, a long time ago, but I think it fits, don’t you? Besides, is there any truer name than the one you give yourself?”_ _

__Frank nods mechanically. He has already begun backing towards the door. This so called ‘Father Blasphemy’ is obviously insane. Frank’s entire body jolts when his back rests against something warm and decidedly not a door._ _

__He jumps and stifles a scream with his hand. He spins around, putting his back to Father Blasphemy. The vaguest shadow of a man looms there, well-built and solid._ _

__His heart pounding, he backs up from the new specter, completely forgetting the first wraith in his fear. Bad move._ _

__A black robed arm loops around his waist in one smooth motion. Burbling up from the depths of his panic, a scream attempts to tear its way out of his throat, only to be stopped by a smooth, pale hand._ _

__Breath that stinks of blood and whiskey curls malodorously against his ear. “Where are you going in such a rush, little virgin?”_ _

__Frank’s eyes widen. No, no, no, no, _no!_. He twists and struggles with the fury of a cornered animal, biting Father Blasphemy’s long fingers and stomping down onto his feet._ _

__He winces and lets go of Frank, backing up and nursing his now-bleeding hand. His flinty eyes kindle a fire of rage within themselves._ _

__“Hold him,” he spits out to the shadowy man._ _

__Before Frank can so much as gasp, two muscular arms wrap around his skinny arms securely. Frank grunts and lashes out against his unseen captor, only to stop as the silent man takes every blow stoically._ _

__He’s angry now, as well as confused and scared. This melting pot of emotions bubbles over into misplaced bravery. “Who the hell are you people?!” he yells. “What do you want?! Let me go!”_ _

__Father Blasphemy steps forwards and stares down at him with undisguised contempt. He raises a hand and slaps him abruptly across the face with the back of his hand, hard. The edge of a ring catches Frank’s cheek and tears his skin. A warm drop of blood oozes out. Frank’s head snaps to the side and he bites his lip to keep from crying out in pain._ _

__“I will not be spoken to like that by a subordinate,” he says darkly. “As for what we want, it’s not about that. It’s about what you want, Frank.”_ _

__Frank looks at him and struggles halfheartedly once more. “How do you know who I am?”_ _

__He turns from Frank and walks over to the single chair and light, saying, “We’ve been watching you for a long time. We saw you needed help and, out of the kindness of our hearts, we are offering you an opportunity to strike back against the Church. No one forced you to come here, Frank.”_ _

__He can’t argue with that. He had indeed come here of his own free will. That doesn’t quell his choking fear and frantic confusion, however. His brain reels and he pieces together another cohesive question._ _

__“Why... Why would you want me?”_ _

__Father Blasphemy’s eyes crinkle, the bandana hiding his predatory smile. He reaches back behind his ebony head and deftly unties his bandana. Dry and cracked full, girlish lips curve upwards into a chilling smile as he holds out the bandana for Frank to see, displaying its upside-down cross._ _

__“Do you know what this is?” he questions._ _

__“It’s an upside down cross,” Frank says, pointing out the obvious._ _

__“Yes, yes, any idiot could tell me _that_ ,” he waves dismissively. “But what does it mean?”_ _

__“Mean? I don’t-”_ _

__“Of course. I’d forgotten. Your years living as the Church’s puppet has made you stupid and weak. You couldn’t possibly know what it means,” Father Blasphemy interrupts. Frank flares with anger but lets it simmer as the man continues._ _

__“It’s not just an ‘upside-down cross’,” he explains with the aura of an artist picking apart his own artwork for a critic. “It’s a _perversion._ It’s a twisted misconstruction of all that the Church’s cross represents: holiness, salvation, and light. It represents the depraved shadow of these values: blasphemy, damnation, and darkness. In a way, I suppose it’s a bit like you...” he trails off and looks at Frank slyly. _ _

__He ties the bandana back behind his head and leans in so close that Frank can see his mouth moving underneath the rough material. He wrinkles his nose at the stench of his breath._ _

__“You’re a perversion.”_ _

__Frank starts as though he had been struck. _That_ had hit a chord. It was exactly what his mind cruelly had told itself whenever he had woken up achingly hard after having dreams of men. It was different hearing it out in the open, falling from another person’s lips like dead birds out of a toxic sky._ _

__“You take that back, you bastard! I’m no-mmm!” His hurt indignation is cut short by a cool hand against his lips. Father Blasphemy has leaned down slightly so that their eyes are directly level. His eyes soften almost mockingly at Frank._ _

__“Sh, little virgin,” he whispers menacingly. “It’s ok. I’m a perversion, too.”_ _

__He suddenly straightens up and reaches around Frank to grab the silent man’s jaw with both pale hands. He leans in close, crowding Frank back against his human chains and effectively trapping the younger male between them. His heart beats faster than it should at being sandwiched between the two men._ _

__There’s a wet, sliding sound directly next to Frank’s head, along with a small ‘mmf’ as Father Blasphemy rolls smoothly against him. His breathing hitches and the smell of the man in front of him overwhelms Frank as his nose bumps against his neck: a mix of incense and musk. The kiss lasts for an impossibly long second before the raven-haired man pulls away with an obscene pop. Frank can feel his crotch beginning to take interest and he’s pretty sure his cheeks are embarrassingly flushed. His bandana is back in place by the time he reenters Frank’s view; smooth and unruffled as though nothing has happened._ _

__

__He is once again dumb-founded. He stares with blank disbelief at the sinful man in front of him. What Father Blasphemy has just done, just that small sign of affection to the same sex, was damnably unholy. It would certainly be enough to get him hanged after a month of horrible purification ceremonies. Frank wishes he could convince himself the thought didn’t excite him at all. He recoils from the sinful thoughts and shoves them deep away, banished but certainly not forgotten._ _

__“I can’t possibly explain the rest of what it means to be a Heretic here,” Father Blasphemy says cooly as though he hadn’t just been partaking in a depraved sin of the flesh. “I’m giving you a choice. Right here. Right now.”_ _

__He pauses and scratches his jaw underneath the bandana. “Either you come with us and we enlighten you on the ways of the Order, give you the weapons you’ll need to save your parents, and allow you to help us tear down this entire Church or,” Here he fixes Frank with a hard, judging stare. “You’ll walk right back out of here, unchanged, and live a meaningless, thankless life while you lust over a man you can never have.”_ _

__Unbidden, Frank’s restrainer pushes Frank away as though he were disgusting. Frank stumbles and rubs his biceps from where the man’s strong grip has left them sore. He maneuvers himself so that he can see the both of them. The unseen man steps wordlessly away from the door and joins Father Blasphemy by his side underneath the barren light._ _

__Sandy blond hair shines dimly above blue eyes. A bandana is pushed down around his neck from where Father Blasphemy had shoved it down to kiss him. He hastily pulls it back up and reties it, but not before Frank gets a glimpse of a scruffy, unshaven face and jaw. He’s of stockier build than Father but barely an inch taller. Bones stand out against the black background of his bandana; it’s made to look like an X-ray of sorts: the jaw dislocated and several teeth crooked, making him look for all the world as though he had just been in a very nasty fight._ _

__“So, go ahead,” Father Blasphemy intones with all the weight of a preacher pronouncing damnation upon some wretched soul. “Choose.”_ _

__Surprisingly, Frank feels no indecision. Something deep inside him had already decided for him, the moment he had chosen to step through the door. That was the moment that had carried Frank’s fate on its very shoulders, not this one._ _

__So, with a sense of helplessness, Frank turns from the door and looks at the two men with a shaky, yet determined stare._ _

__“I choose The Order.” His voice is barely audible, even in the silence of the rotting building._ _

__Father Blasphemy and the well-built man look at each other with knowing glances. The blond arches an eyebrow, a silent question Frank can’t read. Father Blasphemy nods slowly, a smirk playing about his eyes._ _

__“Excellent,” he says as the other steps forwards, producing a scrap of a rag from deep within his robes._ _

__Frank shrinks back as he nears him with the grimy rag stretched out before him. Shoving the rag up against Frank’s nose and mouth, the blond gives him no time to react. Frank gasps around the gag, only to be hit with a wave of dizziness._ _

__He sways in place and stumbles to the side as the room dips and spins. Voices talk mutedly and blurry, shadowy figures crowd into his line of sight as he collapses into unknown arms. The hushed voices are cut off as abruptly as a candle being blown out, darkness strangling his mind and wiping his vision._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit short, but the next chapter should make up for it.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	5. The Evil Made Me Do It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank's first taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow… Has it really been over a year? I suck. Big time. As always, a big thank you to my beta reader, because this wouldn't have been posted at all if she hadn't brought it up.
> 
> I don't like a lot of things about this chapter, but I gave it my best shot, for old times' sake.

_"To be of the Order, you must have its experiences. Murder, sex, loss, hate - all of these and more. You must separate yourself from that which connects you to those outside the Order, and be content with it." _  
 _\- Unknown Member of the Order, A Collection of Heretic Sayings _____

____ _ _

____He was a tight ball of shivering filth and damp clothes. He drew himself tighter inwards and desperately attempted to conserve some semblance of warmth. His teeth clattered together and a wet spot formed underneath his aching head._ _ _ _

____Frank slowly peeled his eyes open. He stared blankly at the dim wall of his cardboard box. He started upright without thinking, nearly putting a hole through the soggy material. The smell of waterlogged cardboard in his nose, he quickly shuffled out and into the sopping night._ _ _ _

____The narrow crevice of his alleyway greeted him, wind howling wildly above. A sheet of driving rain dug tiny, icy claws into his shivering body. He cowered back underneath the fire escape, doing his best to ignore the fat drops that occasionally rolled off the rusting metal. His satchel tugged familiarly at his shoulder like the comforting hand of a close friend and he shivered again._ _ _ _

____He looked around his alleyway with confusion and a feeling of scraped-out disappointment. There was no sign of either Father Blasphemy or the blond man. The only sound was the rain and the whispers and scuffles of rats across the rough ground. For a fleeting moment, Frank considered calling out. Fear and experience choked his voice back down._ _ _ _

____Could he have possibly imagined it? No, it was too real for it to have been a delusion of his grief-stricken and starving mind. A cruel joke, perhaps. That scenario sickened him to his very core. The hope he had felt when he had read the letter... No, he can’t let himself believe it was some sort of elaborate ruse._ _ _ _

____An even worse thought crashed into his mind with all the finesse and tact of a flaming freight-train. It had all been a set-up to lure in traitors against the Church. They were coming for him. Terror flared in trodden-down eyes and amped up his senses. An overwhelming impulse to just run took over him and he had to clench his arms about himself to prevent giving in to instinct._ _ _ _

____The primal compulsion passed in less than a second, banished by the calming balm of logic and reasoning. A shaky, frigid breath passed between chapped lips to provide oxygen to his startled brain. If they had intended to report and arrest him, he would have woken up in a cleansing center. Or not at all._ _ _ _

____He looked down at his shoes for comfort. His heart leapt into his chest. Barely visible in the corner of his eye was the edge of a small, white packet. Frank scrambled for it and clutched it to his chest like a prized teddy bear. A smile crossed his face; close-lipped and wary, but there all the same._ _ _ _

____Furtively, he stuffed the packet deep within his satchel. It was too dark to read it any letter that might be inside and he didn’t want to risk water damage. He leaned back against the rough, stained brick, exhaling coils of tension into the raging storm. He allowed himself to close his eyes and bask in relief._ _ _ _

____Pop._ _ _ _

____Frank froze, muscles clenching and eyes flying open. He knew that sound all too well. It was the muffled sound of a silenced holy rifle firing into the deep night. A terrible, bone-chilling sound. Like the screech of an owl echoing through a moonless night, it prophesied death for lesser creatures._ _ _ _

____And it was much too close._ _ _ _

____The end of his alleyway close._ _ _ _

____In the next instant, Frank had scrambled back into his box, cowering as far back as possible like a frightened mouse trapped in a hole. Blood pounded in his ears and his careful breathing seemed to howl louder than the storm above._ _ _ _

____Heavy boots thundered down the alley, drawing closer and closer with each moment. Frank dug his blunt teeth into his cracked lips to keep his terrified screams in check. Without access to a calendar, he had completely forgotten about this Church-sanctioned, blood-soaked night._ _ _ _

____Once a month, the Angels of New Heaven marched out in full out onto its grimy streets, choking the veins of the city with their poisonous presence. They plundered the deepest pits of debauchery and dug out sinners by the cartful. There was no execution ceremony or cleansing process for those caught out on this night. They were shoved down to their knees by strong, righteous arms and ordered to pray to a God they have never believed in for mercy. As soon as the last ‘Amen’ left their shaking lips, a scorching bullet seared through their brain and blessed them with oblivion._ _ _ _

____The bodies were left in the street, disgraced and soaked with terror and sin. They weren’t picked up until well into the next day. People went about their business, carefully stepping over pools of blood and crumpled pieces of human trash. They were left there as a clear message from the Church to keep potential sinners in line. Frank had nightmares for weeks after every purge night._ _ _ _

____That fear had been only second-hand, purchased from the sight of caved-in skulls and distorted faces. This fear was much too close, too tangible a thing. He breathed in terror and exhaled silent whimpers of fright as the threatening cacophony of boots and clanking equipment neared his hiding place. He dimly estimated there to be about three Angels, but he couldn’t be sure with all the sound echoing off the close alley walls._ _ _ _

____The boots ground to a halt about ten feet away. Frank swallowed down his own breath, overheard rumors of the Angels’ superhuman senses running wildly through his hyped-up mind._ _ _ _

____In complete silence - on the Angels’ part - something large and heavy was dragged out from the boxes near Frank. It screamed and whimpered and begged for mercy in an almost unintelligible voice. Tears of empathy and terror coursed down Frank’s cheeks as the single, barked command of “Say your prayers,” cut through its desperate pleads. Frank’s arms encircled his shaking knees._ _ _ _

____Slowly, shakily, the poor creature began. Their voice was gravely and shot-out sounding. “Our Father, which art in heaven...”_ _ _ _

____They were obviously going slowly on purpose, to draw out their eventual demise. Frank squeezed his eyes shut._ _ _ _

____“Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on-”_ _ _ _

____“Hurry up,” the Angel growled, growing impatient with their slow pace. A sickening crunch. A sob-twisted breath from the victim. Then their voice again, quicker and full of heart-rending resignation._ _ _ _

____“On Earth as it is in heaven,” They began sobbing, words barely discernible from their sorrow and the storm above. “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass agains- AAAIIEEE!”_ _ _ _

____The scream tore through Frank’s fear and allowed unprecedented amounts of adrenaline to surge through. The Angels let out answering shouts and bursts of muffled gunfire: forebodingly cut short._ _ _ _

____There was a scramble of grey and terror in front of his box: the escaping prey. It half-crawled away, screaming and crying with pitiful, animal-like noises. Something pale and damp flopped down in front of Frank’s box, accompanied by a soft crunch._ _ _ _

____Eyes wide and blown-out, Frank stared at the strange, squishy thing. He gaped at it for a good minute before realizing the awful something’s identity: the bleeding, raw face of a dead Angel. The mouth was open in a silent scream of final agony and his eyes had been crudely gouged out by an unseen rough hand._ _ _ _

____Frank bit down hard on the side of his mouth, salty blood gushing around his teeth, as he struggled to stop himself from wailing. The hideous nothingness of the Angel’s empty caves of congealed red froze Frank to his very core and he was helplessly pinned underneath the dead predator’s gaze._ _ _ _

____The soundless howl of unspoken pain written across the dead face seemed to grow louder and louder in Frank’s ears, filling his head with a ceaseless ringing. Eventually, with a surge of desperation, he kicked the dead Angel away from his box, combating a wave of nausea as he felt the nose give underneath his heel like a piece of rotten fruit._ _ _ _

____Gasping for breath, he threw himself out of the box. He breathed in air heavy with the scent of blood and promptly threw up, the sick splashing over his already filthy sneakers and spilling all over a curled, ownerless hand._ _ _ _

____The sight of that extremity belly-up to the sky like some sort of massive, dead spider, was enough to send him into fits of dry-retching. His stomach burned as his body forcibly repeated the useless motion, nothing left to give._ _ _ _

____Frank’s hand wiped his snotty nose and disgust-tainted lips. His knees and hands shook uncontrollably and he couldn’t seem to see straight. He went down onto his knees - narrowly avoiding his disgraceful puddle of vomit - and sobbed_ _ _ _

____He hadn’t truly cried for over a year. Sure, he had sniffled here and there as things become too much for him, but those were just over-spilling bits of emotion. This time, the force of his sobs made his shoulders convulse uncontrollably. Tears and snot flow unimpeded down his concealed face as he shamefully hid his face with his hands._ _ _ _

____Massive amounts of tightly-wound emotions and worries ripped their way out of him in painful lashes. The loss of his parents was one lash. The worries of simply surviving this night was another lash. His own self-doubt and feelings of helplessness was yet another lash. The atrocities he had witnessed was an additional lash.They doubled over each other, these demons of his, and tore at his insides._ _ _ _

____He was lost in a world of self-torment and sorrow. He couldn’t breathe properly and his brain swam in a haze of oxygen deprivation. Lungs convulsed to bring in enough air as the emotions pouring out of him threatened to drown out his consciousness._ _ _ _

____Dimly, in this hellish condition, he registered a pair of arms wrapping around him. They were strong and safe and warm, squeezing just enough to comfort Frank. He burrowed into them with a choked whimper and breathed in the blessed warmth of another person. His shaking and anguished gasps slowly subsided into small tremors and the occasional sniffle. He thought for one euphoric moment that he was back in his mother’s arms, her quiet, humming voice soothing his troubles away._ _ _ _

____With a sudden and horrible jolt, he came to his senses. His eyes snapped open. The side of his face was crushed into a wide expanse of black. Something cold and sharp pressed through the fabric of his soaked t-shirt. He flew back from the arms in a confused whirlwind._ _ _ _

____He gasped and his entire body seized up. He could not move, could not breathe, could not think. Towering over him and dressed in soaked black clothes was an exceptionally skinny man. His stance was crooked and bent and his face was creased with red. He stunk of chemicals, so much so that Frank could smell it over the pungent odor of blood and vomit. A light above a doorway just caught the edge of his hooked nose and reflected sinisterly off his cracked glasses. His thin lips gradually twitched up his face, parting to reveal broken yellow teeth. He wheezed and reaches out towards Frank with a bony, twitching hand._ _ _ _

____“Do not be afraid, my child,” he breathed and took a step forward. He moved jerkily, as though he was not in full control of his movements. “I am not here to harm you. I just need something from you.These poor souls didn’t have it. You can help me, can’t you?” He trailed off, succumbing to a hacking wet cough._ _ _ _

____Frank gaped at him and crawled back a bit more. This deadly night had brought out more than just Angels. The creature - that was the only word Frank can think of to describe this twitchy, bent man - took another step._ _ _ _

____“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Just stay right there.” Something flashed in his right hand._ _ _ _

____Frank got halfway to his feet, never taking his eyes off the thing. “S-Stay back,” he said, weakly. He choked on his own words and cleared his throat. “Stay back!” he said again, a little clearer and braver._ _ _ _

____The man cocked his head to the side in a frighteningly abrupt movement, but did not stop his unsteady pace. “Don’t do that,” he scolded. “You’ll attract unwanted company.”_ _ _ _

____He had regained his stance now, trembling as he stared down the incredibly tall man. Ropes of soaked, grey hair swung wetly against his porcelain head. He moved a bit quicker, with little hops and wheezes in his unsteady gait. He raised the gleaming object in his hand, smile broadening, and slashed down at Frank._ _ _ _

____As weak from the cold and the rain as he was, it was nothing short of a miracle that he managed to dodge out of the way of the slash in time. They both stood there for a moment as the storm roared itself raw above them, predator and prey watching for the next move. Frank, with his eyes blown wide from the sudden rush, and the twisted man hunched over oddly, dry lips parted in shock around yellowed teeth. Frank’s abrupt movement had left him with his back against the wall of the alleyway, the man just slightly in front of him and blocking the way out. The miniscule difference in positioning had cast the playing field in a whole new light and, as the man shuffled around to fully cut off that avenue of escape, Frank’s chances of survival rapidly dropped._ _ _ _

____It was a sensation he could feel in his bones. He could feel it in the way they ache as the man straightened back up again like a snake rearing high above a helpless rodent. With each damp breath he took in, the feeling grew. He was going to die here in this alleyway. This man was going to kill him. His heart began dropping, sending up a singing sensation of adrenaline as it went._ _ _ _

____He had never been closer to the edge before, and it was exhilarating. He had taken his first true hit of one of the most addicting substances in the world._ _ _ _

____Danger._ _ _ _

____The high had now grabbed ahold and sunk its honeyed claws deep within his brain and there was no other sensation he would rather feel than this. Without thinking, without breathing, he threw his entire being at the man, nearly gagging at the revolting stench that enveloped him. Needless to say, the creature was more than shocked as his innocent little meal forced him to the ground and began pummeling him with inexperienced - but effective - punches._ _ _ _

____Frank didn’t feel the burst of muted pain that erupted from his knee as it dug harshly into the man’s shoulder. He didn’t feel the burning agony that danced across his hands as his knuckles were turned bleeding and raw by the man’s glasses and teeth. He didn’t feel the awkwardness of his left foot trapped beneath the man’s back. He only felt the thrilling high of his situation and the dark satisfaction of watching this evil man’s face turn red and blue underneath his bare hands. He could not stop now even if he wanted to._ _ _ _

____The knife had long since skittered away into the darkness, leaving its master to his fate. The man clenched a broad hand into a fist and retaliated with a pained grunt. Frank’s head snapped to the side and that was all the opening he needed. He easily seized Frank’s narrow shoulders and threw them to the side, rolling them over. Frank tugged viciously at his hair and yanked huge handfuls of it out, face fixed in a snarl and pupils dilated. The man was above him, clammy hands at his throat. His head splashed in a dirty puddle and the falling rain blurred his vision. All he could see was the man’s fuzzy silhouette and a strip of rolling sky above._ _ _ _

____Before the man could get a good grip on his slippery neck, Frank forced a foot between them and shot it up directly into the apex of his legs. The man instantly released him and went to cup his injured area, howling with rage and pain. Frank rolled away, directly onto the corpse of a fallen Angel. The knife shone promisingly less than a foot away from him._ _ _ _

____His shaking fingers secured themselves around the wooden handle and he lurched to his feet. He didn’t even spare a glance for the now unblocked end of the alley. His mind didn’t have room for anything other than the burning desire to end this man who had attempted to harm him._ _ _ _

____His frustrations and his fears and his anger channeled themselves through the knife in his hand and, as it plunged deep into the man’s hunched-over back, he briefly understood the man’s desire to maim. Contrary to his earlier breakdown, this supernova of repressed feelings exploded outward, focusing all its wrath on the only living being within reach. His vision narrowed down to the thin silver space between the handle and the man’s back. He wrenched back wetly and struck again, ears burning with rage and the sound of his pained shouts. He was flying high above the realm of rationality and not even the jarring grate of the blade as it slid over bone could bring him back down._ _ _ _

____Everything was a blur of black on black. Dark blood on dark clothes on dark concrete under a dark sky. His only sensation was the burning in his arm as he stabbed into wiry flesh again and again and again. His limbs moved on their own as the man gave a final, shuddering heave beneath him. Frank watched, fixated, as the life drained out of his eyes and left them empty orbs of glass. His arm stilled and slowly released the knife from where it was embedded in the man’s throat._ _ _ _

____The high was beginning to dissipate now. Frank stared limply at the dead man at his feet. He was a monster. He began shaking uncontrollably as his sanity struggled to bend underneath the sudden weight of this revelation. He dug his hands into his hair and pulled ruthlessly at it, grimacing with repulsion and terror. Confused cries rang out from his shuddering lips. He clumsily rushed to his feet, running before he even truly regained them, and dashed away from the evidence of his heinous act. He nearly slipped several times on slick pieces of trash and discarded bullet casings, but the remnants of his adrenaline kept his mind sharp enough to maintain his footing._ _ _ _

____He launched himself out of the alleyway and into the street. He hadn’t gone more than four feet before tripping over a large, black lump. His head cracked against the pavement and he felt a warm wetness begin to spread there. He threw a glance back at the lump - and immediately wished he hadn’t._ _ _ _

____Frank had put his foot entirely through a dead person’s mouth. The jaw had broken halfway and hung at an obscene angle around his sneaker. Gleaming teeth laid scattered in the person’s long, blonde hair, like pearls. Their blue eyes were stretched wide in an imitation of their owner’s final terror. Frank screamed, no longer able to help the loud and piercing noise that tore its way out of his throat._ _ _ _

____He tried to yank his foot away, sobbing violently and yelling. The teeth caught on the edge of his sneaker and kept him there, as though the blond corpse was determined to ensure Frank joined them. He could hear barked orders being shouted above the rain, and then the dreaded sound of heavy boots marching closer. He turned his head to the side and sighted a whole regiment of Angels a good distance down the street, jogging closer. He sobbed again and dug his blunt fingernails into the gritty asphalt, now thrashing and kicking with all his might to be free of the cadaver._ _ _ _

____It finally let go with a loud crack and he staggered upright. He swept his eyes over the street, mind racing. He didn’t know where to go. The Angels drew closer with each tired beat of his heart. The high was back, but this time it was not pleasant, nor did it give him any sort of strength. Instead, it sapped the will from his limbs and left him a quivering mess, melting slowly into the asphalt like a disgusting patch of mold._ _ _ _

____Exhaustion weighed down his limbs and blurred his vision. The head injury he had sustained floated his head above the clouds, far away from the storm and the Angels and the death. He stumbled away stiffly, as though he were one of the unfortunate cadavers lying strewn about the street. He had to keep going._ _ _ _

____Sight mixed with sounds and smells mixed with the taste of blood in his mouth. He was walking through a running oil painting, sludging through the melted puddles of his reasoning. He felt warm all over and shaky and bottled up and dully terrified. His mind struggled to cope with the horrific images dancing both in front of him and in his mind’s eye._ _ _ _

____That corpse… That blond hair… Those beautiful blue eyes…_ _ _ _

____No…_ _ _ _

____That was when he sensed the touch on his ankle. It reached him through his haze and slowly anchored him back into the real world. He snapped his head down to look at it. A black hand was caressing the spot between his sneaker and pant leg. It rose from the street itself, an arm reaching up to drag him down into the deepest pits of hell. He welcomed it and crouched down. He was oblivious now to the regiment clomping ever closer. That piece of pertinent information had been discarded in his delirious state._ _ _ _

____Closer to the hand, he could now see that it was clawing its way out of an open manhole. It gestured frantically at Frank by crooking two of its shiny fingers in a universal ‘come hither’ motion. Frank tilted his soaked head to the side and smiled dimly at it. A huge shiver racked his body and he coughed loudly. His mind was beginning to systematically shut down. His consciousness could no longer take the strain of all that was happening._ _ _ _

____“Hello,” whispered Frank hoarsely to the hand. Maybe it would be his friend. He hasn’t had a friend in such a painfully long while. Except for Nat…_ _ _ _

____The corpse flashed back up in his mind and he gave a shout of pain as the image was violently rejected from his psyche. He held his head in one hand and groaned. He reached out hesitantly and patted the top of the hand. It felt smooth and warm and comforting. His already limited vision narrowed down to the hand, everything else beyond it a beady black._ _ _ _

____There was a loud pounding pressing at his head. Over and over and over it sounded. It jingled and thumped deafeningly. It was growing in volume with each moment he stared at the hand and he vaguely thought that maybe he should move. He should get out of the way of whatever was making the noise. It must be rather large to be making all that racket._ _ _ _

____Impatient with his reluctance, the hand grabbed his wrist and yanked him down into the street. Darkness ate him whole and he fell head over heels into a rancid pit. He landed awkwardly in someone’s arms. They fumbled with their flashlight and threw abrupt and confusing shadows over the glistening walls. Nearby, a slow moving river thick with waste trudged along. It consumed the light briefly flashed on it and reflected nothing. A face was momentarily illuminated by the fickle beams of light. They were plunged into darkness as the being managed to click the flashlight off around an armful of Frank._ _ _ _

____Frank screamed and beat weakly at their chest with what little remained of his strength. A monster held him half off the ground, some terrifying demon with a gaping skull for a head. From what he had glimpsed, worms were slicked down on its pasty head, dead and limp. He gasped down putrid breaths of the warm sewer air and redoubled his efforts at escaping. He couldn’t breathe properly, his head swam, and his legs had turned to useless tubes of limp flesh. He was on the brink of the vast, welcoming pit of unconsciousness, yet he still clung to his last bit of perception._ _ _ _

____“Goddamnit,” the monster grunted, attempting to get a squirming Frank to remain still as it began to drag him further into the disgusting depths of the sewers. Frank kicked and punched and bit at every inch of the monster he could reach, weary desperation driving on limbs that should have given up long ago._ _ _ _

____“Stop fucking squirming you little s- ow!” it squawked. A lucky punch had landed square on its jaw. “Are you trying to get us both killed?!”_ _ _ _

____“Lemme go!” Franks slurred._ _ _ _

____“I’m not trying to hurt you!” It succeeded in dragging Frank another half-foot as its unwilling charge went limp for a moment in order to fully consider the statement. His exhausted brain made the connection between monsters and lying quickly. Frank shook his sopping head and dug his heels into the floor._ _ _ _

____“I’m not going anywhere with a monster,” he garbled adamantly._ _ _ _

____“For Christ’s fucking sake,” the thing sighed. “You’re in worse condition than we thought. Damn that arrogant bastard, all his rules…Doesn’t even follow them half the time himself...”_ _ _ _

____A leathery hand shoved itself into Frank’s panting mouth. He immediately bit down on it, but not before it managed to shove a small pill into his mouth. It cursed loudly and clamped its injured hand over his lips, preventing him from spitting the capsule out._ _ _ _

____Above them, the manhole cover was thrown aside with a resounding clatter. A blindingly bright beam of light violated the quiet darkness of the sewers and casted itself around, searching for its escaped prey. The sandpaper voices of Angels followed the beam._ _ _ _

____“Do not be afraid!” they cajoled in voices that alluded to many years of abused power. “Come out so that you may be blessed!” Rough laughter followed._ _ _ _

____“Oh, fuck me,” it groaned. It jostled Frank roughly. “C’mon, swallow the damn pill so we can get the hell out of here!”_ _ _ _

____Frank swallowed reflexively, out of fear of the Angels above. He slowly began to lose the struggle for awareness as the pill slid down his throat. Numbness rose to mute his fear and soothe his aching bones. His fighting lost its venom. His eyes drooped closed._ _ _ _

____He was dimly aware of being slung over something. As his mind succumbed to darkness and his body bounced roughly on a bony shoulder, he could hazily hear the thing mumbling to itself._ _ _ _

____“Last fucking time I volunteer for acolyte watch, I’ll tell you that. Father can go fuck himself on a cross if he thinks I’m doing this again…”_ _ _ _

____His last sensation was that of distant horror at the vulgar language._ _ _ _

____-_ _ _ _

____Frank stirred fitfully, head pounding and nose painfully stuffy. He was burning with an obscene amount of heat, shivering as he struggled to kick the heavy blankets off him. Cruel hands kept the blankets wrapped tight around him, making sure he remained ensconced in his prison of fire and sweat. In the next moment, he shuddered violently as coldness wrapped itself around his bones. He curled onto his side and hacked up gobs of bile all over the sheets. He could not stop coughing, the force of the convulsions making his entire body quiver with exertion._ _ _ _

____He blearily opened teary eyes. A single candle danced in front of him, back and forth, back and forth. His mouth hung open as he followed it, the waves of hot and cold briefly forgotten. The candle stopped and set itself down a small table. An ogre with blond tufts of hair stepped into the light, followed by a spider-man with dangerously skinny six arms that never stopped moving._ _ _ _

____They stared at him, two white eyes and ten gleaming black ones. Frank couldn’t summon the energy to be scared as their forms melted and shifted, never the same twice. He coughed again and balled himself up tighter. He kept one eye open to watch the strange beings. He flinched as the ogre laid a massive hand on his forehead._ _ _ _

____“Damn,” the ogre said, staring at Frank. “You weren’t exaggerating.”_ _ _ _

____The spider-man shook his elongated head. His arms extended to crazy lengths, then snapped back at his sides. “I told Father that he should have been taken in when he came to us, but no. He had to be sure he was ‘right for the Order’” Although the spider-man had no pupils or irises of any kind, Frank could swear it was rolling its now twelve eyes._ _ _ _

____“Even knowing what day it was?” the ogre said incredulously and stepped away from Frank to look at the spider-man._ _ _ _

____He nodded and crossed four of his arms. “Something about proving himself…”_ _ _ _

____The ogre growled. “Screw that. He could have died out there, and then where would we be?”_ _ _ _

____“I’ll tell you where we’d be…”_ _ _ _

____The spider-man’s voice drifted away into the liquid light of the candle. Both of their hazy bodies collapsed in on themselves as Frank’s eyes eased closed again, seeking relief from the sickness wracking his body. He slipped into a fitful doze, which only provided him with terrible twisting bits of red behind his eyelids, like rivulets of blood._ _ _ _

____He opened his eyes to escape this new horror and found himself staring death in the face. He could not move, for his limbs were weighted down with gnarled arms made of cotton blankets. Screaming did nothing, as all he was able to vocalize was a small hiss that was easily swallowed up by the shadowy room._ _ _ _

____Death was short. Death had a pale, feminine face and long black hair. It had red lips stretched over its jaw. The achingly red lips wrapped around its head to tie itself in a bow on top of their undulating black hair. It had tiny, cold hands that touched at his face. It liked to flash pearly white teeth. It liked to drag wet things over his burning head. It cared for him. And it slowly, ever so slowly, metamorphosed into his stout mother._ _ _ _

____Her skin wavered like fire as she smiled down at Frank. Occasionally, her bobbed hair would extend over her shoulders and ooze like oil. Briefly, she would look like Death again. Frank would blink, surprised, and his mother would be back, cooing in an unfamiliar voice as she smoothed back his sweaty locks from his fevered face. She would come and go, just like the candlelight and just like Frank’s quick moments of consciousness._ _ _ _

____Time held no meaning in this limbo of illness. He could have been lying in that bed, drifting in and out of the candlelit room, for hours or weeks. The only thing that distinguished itself from his miserable slipstream was his mother, Death, and the ghouls which appeared to him when he closed his eyes._ _ _ _

____Death came to him the most. His mother only appeared at his most delirious of moments, when he saw birds flying around the room made of starlight and fat drops of blood or imagined Angels writing different accounts of his life all over the scorched walls. She was there to anchor him to something that at least gave the illusion of being real. As soon as he felt stable enough to really look at her, she would dissipate into the grey area of his mind. Death would replace her and care for him, as though his mother had never left. This cycle repeated constantly without reprieve until Frank thought he would rather die than endure another second of it._ _ _ _

____Eventually, for the first time in however long it had been, the delirious film over his dilated eyes melted away. He weakly turned his head to face Death. Death was sitting in a chair this time, not floating or twisting its body into incomprehensible shapes. Its lips were stretched, but not over its shining black hair. They were stretched into a close-lipped smile, strains of music filtering out between them. Its eyes were no longer pits of ever repeating black whirlpools of trapped souls, but downturned brown eyes that caught the flickering candle’s meager light rather beautifully. Its hair remained still about its shoulder, occasionally stirring when a draft caught it. Death, he realized, was a she._ _ _ _

____Frank flopped a hand out from underneath the oppressive covers. Death looked up from her book, pale hand stretched wide over the yellowed page. Frank reached out and clumsily pawed at her face, needing to know what he saw before him was real. Her skin was deliciously cool underneath his burning hand and gave like a real person’s would._ _ _ _

____Satisfied, Frank let his hand fall to the side, hanging half off the bed. His eyes remained fixated on her confused face. He parted his painfully chapped lips and a wheeze of a word slipped out._ _ _ _

____“Death…”_ _ _ _

____Death closed her book and leaned closer to Frank’s panting mouth. She smelled of wax.. “What?” she breathed, shocked that Frank had spoken at all._ _ _ _

____“Death,” he wheezed again. “Where…” A wisp of air cut him harshly in just the wrong place and forced heaving coughs out of him. Death wheeled back and reached down next to her. She held up a small vial of liquid. Holding his neck steady with one hand, she tilted the vial up to his lips. Frank drank without question, sighing contentedly as the tasteless mixture soothed his ragged throat._ _ _ _

____“Don’t strain yourself,” she murmured. “You’re very lucky to be alive.” She lowered Frank’s head carefully back onto the pillows._ _ _ _

____He stared up at the rough ceiling above him. It looked to be carved out of solid stone. What Death had said surely couldn’t be true. He was already dead. Why else would he be sequestered deep underground? That thing in the sewers had gotten him and forced poison between his lips. It was probably gnawing on his body right now. Maybe that was the reason behind his aching bones._ _ _ _

____“I’m… alive?” Frank whispered._ _ _ _

____“Yes, innocent one,” Death said and rested a hand on his. “You’re alive, but just barely.”_ _ _ _

____He eased his head to the side to look at her again. “Then… Why are you here?”_ _ _ _

____She tilted her face to the side and her smile slipped a bit. “What do you mean?”_ _ _ _

____Frank could not summon up the energy to reply. He curled his fingers around hers and felt his eyes dropping. Her cool hand caressed the side of his face soothingly as she hummed a soft lullaby under her breath._ _ _ _

____“That’s it,” she cooed. “Get your strength back...” She chuckled and her breath leaked out to touch his ear. “You’ll need it.”_ _ _ _

____He began falling into a deep sleep, something he had not had in what seemed like an eternity. Even Death’s vaguely ominous words could not keep him from it and he fell asleep that way, holding Death’s cold hand._ _ _ _

____-_ _ _ _

____“He’s rational now?” This voice was new, but strangely familiar. Frank could not quite place it._ _ _ _

____“Yes, but Father…” Ah, this was his lovely Death speaking._ _ _ _

____“What?” the new voice snapped. Frank considered opening his eyes, but decided against it. He wanted to sleep again, not confront this new being._ _ _ _

____“It would not be wise to push him. He’s still very weak,” Death spoke, a tinge of concern coloring her voice. Frank cracked open one eye at her tone. He watched the shadows on the ceiling swirl around the ragged edges of the rocks and carefully opened his other eye._ _ _ _

____“I will be the one to decide whether or not something is wise, Sister. You are dismissed.” The clack of heels walking briskly across a stone floor. The clank of a metal door opening and the prolonged creak of it closing._ _ _ _

____Frank attempted to prop himself up on his elbows and was pleasantly surprised to find that he could. His sleep-heavy head snapped forward and his teeth clacked together. He quickly regained control and leveled himself off. He ran his tongue over his teeth and tried to swallow down the horrible taste in his mouth. With every lucid breath he took in, more memories returned to haunt him._ _ _ _

____He regarded the man now standing at the end of his iron frame bed. Average height, greasy black hair, and pale skin that rarely saw the light of day. His eyes traveled down to the bandana wrapped around the lower half of his face and he jolted as though he had been administered an electric shock. Recollections of an abandoned building and warm bodies undulating on both sides of him slithered into view and sent a spike of something not quite fear through him._ _ _ _

____“Father Blasphemy?” he said, voice cracking. He felt vaguely ridiculous saying the pseudonym. It tasted of the overblown villains he had read about in his smuggled comic books, now that he thought about it. ‘Father Blasphemy’ was clearly a man with a flair for the theatrical, something that had not occurred to him during their first meeting. Then again, a lot had been happening at the time._ _ _ _

____“The one and only,” he replied smoothly and skimmed a long finger over the bed frame. “How are you feeling, Frank?”_ _ _ _

____Frank narrowed his eyes and shifted so that he was leaning back against the pillows. His tongue burned with questions and accusations but he swallowed them back. He felt different, as though something within him once soft had hardened. He was no longer looking at the world with the same eyes he had possessed. He searched his memories for anything that might have brought about this change, but found nothing. There was a blurry gap in his memories, he soon discovered, starting after he had woken up back in his alleyway. It hurt to look at this blurry gap too closely and so he ignored it for now._ _ _ _

____“Like I’ve died,” Frank answered truthfully._ _ _ _

____“Do you know where you are?” He scratched at a red line on his neck._ _ _ _

____“No. Underground, I’m guessing.”_ _ _ _

____He hummed thoughtfully and merely looked at Frank for a long moment. “I feel as though I must apologize for what happened to you,” he finally said. “I didn’t intend for things to happen this quickly.”_ _ _ _

____Frank opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a dry fit of coughing. Father Blasphemy waited patiently as Frank curled over the hand politely covering his mouth. When it subsided, Frank opened his mouth again._ _ _ _

____“What...” He paused and cleared his throat. “What did happen?”_ _ _ _

____“You mean you don’t remember?” Father Blasphemy arched a black eyebrow. “It seemed like it would be something that would be hard to forget.”_ _ _ _

____“It’s just a blur, really,” Frank said faintly._ _ _ _

____“Hm,” he said, a neutral sound that was there just to fill the cold silence. “You surprised us all in that alley, you know.” His hazel eyes glinted, cool exterior peeling away briefly to expose something burning and hungry. “I guessed you might be capable of such acts, of course, but I didn’t know for sure. Until now.”_ _ _ _

____Bewildered, Frank curled his hands into the covers. “I don’t understand.”_ _ _ _

____“Surely you must remember some of it Frank,” he said in a strange sort of purr, bracing his hands on the end of the bed. “The way his flesh gave under your knuckles and the sound of your fists breaking his vile nose. The feeling of power as you picked up his knife and stabbed him, again and again until there was nothing left but a bloody pulp of a-”_ _ _ _

____“Stop!” Frank shouted. He clasped his hands over his ears and brought his knees close to his chest. Father Blasphemy’s words had brought back lightning quick flashes of recollection from the deepest parts of his subconscious and showed him all the horrible things his own mind had been hiding from him. He trembled and sunk his blunt teeth into his lip, tears peeking out beneath his shut eyes. The bits and pieces formed into a beast of a memory that roared deafeningly between his ears, refusing to go unnoticed._ _ _ _

____He had killed a man._ _ _ _

____His hands came down from his head to wrap themselves around his bent legs. He stared unseeing at the rumpled blanket. Empty tears streamed down his face as he struggled with the revulsion rising within him. He had taken a life, had watched it melt away on the ground, and he had enjoyed every second of it._ _ _ _

____“Oh, God,” he sobbed, pressing the heels of his hands deep into his eyes. “I-I killed him. I killed a man.”_ _ _ _

____“Would you like a medal?” Father Blasphemy’s sarcastic comment cut through his haze and swiftly turned his self-loathing into fiery anger. Frank’s head snapped up and his face contorted itself into a grimace of rage. Father Blasphemy continued to regard him with calm, blank eyes, hands now behind his back._ _ _ _

____“I hate you!” he screamed out on impulse, surprising himself. He sat up straight and balled his tear-stained hands into fists. “None of this would have happened if it weren’t for you!”_ _ _ _

____Silence followed his outburst. Remnants of his rage hung in the air like the crackling energy left after a mighty bolt of lightning and thunder. He suddenly felt very small, yet pumped full of shuddering rage._ _ _ _

____“Hate is such a strong word,” Father Blasphemy remarked, as unaffected as ever. “Besides, it’s not really me you’re angry with, is it?” His narrowed eyes pierced him like a lance, picking him apart with ease._ _ _ _

____Frank trembled with a range of conflicting emotion. He slowly released the blankets and sighed his defeat. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”_ _ _ _

____“I admire your…” he paused and the bandana shifted. “Passion.” He rolled the word out between his lips like it was a delicate jewel. It sent a shiver down Frank’s back. “We could use someone with your drive.”_ _ _ _

____A dullness swept through Frank, pacifying the war inside his head and blending it into a general feeling of wrongness. He let his head droop to look at his hands curled limply in his lap. He was instantly reminded of the hand in the alleyway, covered in blood and vomit. He squeezed his eyes firmly shut and took several deep, steadying breaths._ _ _ _

____“What do you want from me?”_ _ _ _

____The edges of Father Blasphemy’s eyes crinkled. “Everything.”_ _ _ _

____A thrill of fear shot through him and he snapped his head up, mouth falling open in a lopsided slash. The myriad possibilities that hid behind that single word chilled him to his core and he unconsciously scooted away from the man at the end of his bed._ _ _ _

____His shaking lips began to form words of confusion, but he was quickly cut off by a sharp gesture from Father Blasphemy. “We’ll talk more about this once your mind has settled. I will not discuss this with you until you are strong enough and aware enough to realize the weight of your desicion. Sleep well, little virgin.” He laughed harshly and walked briskly to the door, robes fanning out around his feet._ _ _ _

____As the door slammed close, Frank buried his head in his hands and slumped, his strings cut. He felt hollow and scraped-out, like an empty trash can knocked over onto its side in the cold streets. A shard of despair was buried deep in the soft soil of his heart and it grew with every laborious minute that passed in the bare stone room. Trapped like a rat in a pit of his own making, he battled sleep with each shaky breath he took in. His mind was a tired whirlwind, chasing the same points over and over until they all clumped together and quivered, terrified, in the center of his mind. They could kill him or perform some other inconceivable act more terrible than the bittersweet embrace of death. They could keep him here forever, starve him or beat him or worse:_ _ _ _

____They could give him hope._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, yes, I did change the tense. I've found I prefer past tense over present. I intend to go back and edit the other chapters' tense to match this one, but I'm extremely busy with school and I don't know when I'm going to have time to do that, let alone write another chapter. Be patient with me, please.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Expect the next chapter sometime this weekend. I have a lot of work to make up for school so... yeah...
> 
> Thank for reading!


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